Open hands

I turned from where I'd written my name on the blackboard, hands dusted with chalk, and faced my eight high-school freshman with a gulp. Opened my mouth...then closed it. Normally no matter how I'm feeling, I can force words to come out when teaching, but those eight aloof faces, masked and locked away, brought up a fear that left me speechless.

That first class ticked by slowly. I went home from my company that night and laughed with Cindy at the irony of life--Cindy, who has studied and worked in youth ministry and who usually teaches my high-school classes while I teach anyone else.

It took a few weeks of them looking at me like I was crazy and me wondering if they understood anything at all, but now it seems like we're in a good place. We talk about school, friends, schedules, fashion, travel. I've learned that they come from a full day of school and sports practice to study English until the late evening hours and if they have faces locked in a sleepy glaze, it's because they really are fighting hard to stay awake.

Next week is my last class with them. Last night I sat through evening prayer with tears dripping down my face, feeling ridiculous for always crying over impending goodbyes--especially goodbyes with students I've only taught for a total of 6 weeks. I wonder where they will go, what they will end up doing. Will they survive their last years of high-school, go on to college, and end up in a company that makes them work 80 hours a week? Will they take their place in society with their heads down in submission, ready to accept the bullying that is expected from those in leadership above them? Will they succumb to depression, end up hidden away in a room somewhere, or will they somehow receive freedom and confidence? Who will impact them, for good or for ill?

Blah. I feel overly-dramatic and overly-protective--and I really have nothing to say in my own defense. Living with limited language competence--I can do that. Living knowing that there will be daily cultural clashes and pains--it's hard, but I'm okay with sorting through it all. Continual, continual goodbyes with people that I have fought with and for, grown together with, prayed for, and tried to invest in--that feels like dying. Bit by bit, person by person, a continual reminder that nothing is certain and I am only a steward of that which God gives for the day--or for the hour. I wish that I could--I hope someday I'll learn how to--relinquish people to God with trust and hope. But for now, this is me feeling wrinkled-skin old, broken-down, and calloused with bitterness from countless goodbyes.

I can't explain it--why don't I just get used to this life rhythm?

Where did I first hear this phrase: "Live with open hands"? I'm no longer sure. But...I guess this is another day to learn what "open hands" might look like. And I know I learn of grace in the process.

Off to class...